How the Phantom Became the Poet
by Fainn
Summary: Some people leave impressions. Others wilt away. The story of one who simply passed by.


_Disclaimer: Not mine. OC Warning, but this isn't a romance piece._

His world had, quite literally, fallen into pieces.

The days after Christine left had been empty, devoid of the music that had filled life before. Stripped of the opera of which he once held claim, without a steady source of currency, and without refuge from the light that burned his eyes, he felt quite like an ant that had been washed away by the tide, left on some foreign beach to dry and suffocate. He had been to the oceans before, seen the dying creatures struggling towards water, aching to quench the thirst that wracked their bodies. Some reached their destination, and lived. The ones that didn't, died. And he was dying.

He drifted from place to place—almost floating. He once fancied the notion that he could follow Christine, trail after her stealthily, sustained by chance glances at her face once in a while. That was a life he could be happy with, but he had made his promise and had vowed not to bother her or her lover again. If there was one value he had kept throughout the years, it was to honor promises. Sometimes he performed magic tricks for audiences in local bars—wherever he was staying the night, that is. Being a talented ventriloquist and magician helped sometimes, and he found himself able to support himself with the steady trickle of money flowing in on a daily basis. It was enough to afford living in inns for the majority of his time, and to indulge in a French pastry every so often—not as lavish as his life before, but nothing was as it was before anyway.

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The first time he met her was in that little inn in Ancona. He had overheard her asking for a room, and noted the astonishing likeness she had to Christine—from the backside, anyway. When she turned around, however, he found that the two were nothing alike at all. Where Christine had generous curves and brilliance, she had straight lines and plain features. Simple brown hair, tied up in a bun, normal-looking nose with large doe-like brown eyes did nothing to enhance her thin frame, and after that he had stopped paying attention to her. Her kind did not interest him.

He was stumbling up the stairs at late midnight when he felt a gentle hand on his arm. He turned to find the girl, dying candle in hand, offering to help him up. No one had touched him in so long that he was startled, and slipped halfway down the stairs, bringing the girl with him. Her candle slipped out of her hand with a quiet hiss, leaving them in total darkness. She burnt her hand from the hot wax, and after escorting him to his door dashed quickly to the sink to cool the wound.

After supper the next evening, she accompanied him to his room for tea. She told him she was the Duke's only daughter, and how she was journeying home after a winter with her relatives in Greece. She had stopped here to rest for a few days, seeing the lovely view and had painted a few landscapes in the morning. She was doing all the talking, that quiet, collected voice of hers, and occasionally stopped to pour tea, always making sure his cup was full and not a drop was missing. He himself was empty and as he listened felt his heart grow fuller.

She came everyday for the next three days, and had taken him out on one of her painting excursions once. She'd told her handmaids he was a friend and that had surprised him, seeing as he hadn't said a word the past few days. He watched her paint, and found as he watched that her limbs, long and thin, gained their own kind of grace as she painted, smooth and liquid against the sky. Seeing this beauty he thought of Christine, his beautiful Christine, how she had shone against the walls of the dungeon and the sweetness of her touch when she was unafraid. The memory brought tears to his eyes and the handmaids must have thought him mad, a grown man sobbing, tears trickling down the face of the mask and stinging his face.

At the end of the week she had offered to take him home with her. The manor had many rooms and it really wouldn't be so much of a bother if he would—

No.

He had stood everything, everything until this moment, and now his heart was aching and the music he thought he'd forgotten rose angry in his ears. He had screamed no, _**NO!**_ until the walls shook with fury. How _dare_ she take apart the carefully soulless existence he had created, once independent and _unheeding_, and try to take from him his mourning? To leave behind this misery was to leave behind _Christine_, Christine his _obsession_, the one thing he needed and couldn't have and didn't want to part with.

No. Simply no.

She had stood, the stupid cow she was, staring at him quietly until she asked

Why?

There was no _why_, never had been a _why_, couldn't she see this because there had always been a **_THIS_**:

He tore off his mask in one powerful stroke and threw it to the side.

He watched her eyes widen, slowly traveling over each twisted feature, from the chalk-white brow to the black hollowed eyes, but she did not scream as Christine had nor did she flinch like the Persian. She simply looked, nodded, and turned her back.

You know, you don't have to feel ashamed.

What?

She shrugged.

You don't need the rest of the world if you have yourself.

What?

I can make sure no one sees you, if you like. You could still live the way you want. You wouldn't be leaving anything behind.

Now it was his turn to stare.

Why would you do that?

Your presence makes me happy. I enjoy your company, mask or without. I like to keep the things that make me happy—

She paused.

— don't you?

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He left with her on her coach the next day. He needed time to ponder what she said, and like any great puzzle, he longed to understand. Besides, there had been something in her eyes that had promised redemption, and if he'd atoned long ago for his sins Christine might've come back.

He stayed in the attic, the exact opposite of the dungeons he used to dwell in, but he found that if he drew the curtains closed in the morning the place could be just as dark. She brought him all his meals, along with some newspaper clippings and pieces of music. She brought him an organ too, once, but he told her to take it away in favor of some books. Along with material possessions she brought with her conversation, little tidbits of what had happened throughout the day and her thoughts. After a while he found that her thoughts really weren't that mundane at all—she considered each word carefully before speaking, and once he thought he saw a spider on her tongue, weaving the words together before she could speak. Christine had never wanted to talk about opera matters; as long as he could remember she had stayed silent and kept her eyes on the ground, just like the deathly-cold bride he'd always imagined he would have. This new girl, Cynthia, as he later found she was called, spoke as if each were her dying words and he her long-lost lover.

After a few weeks he found himself speaking to her, and the attic filled with two voices: the soft voice of a girl and a low, somewhat cracked baritone. At first he just told her about the Opera, his creations, architecture…but one stormy evening he told her about Christine and Raoul and obsession and when he was done expected her to hate him. Instead she was laughing and said:

Are you going to kidnap me like you did Christine?

I've killed and I've plundered and I've stole. Is there anything I couldn't do?

But then he fell silent and added:

But somehow I feel disinclined to do so to you.

The girl fell silent and they sat there, listening to the howling winds and thinking.

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One day the girl grew hysterical and came to him the perfect picture of a broken woman. He'd asked what was wrong and she told him about her father, whom he thought was a very good man. Not his type of man, but a good one by society's standards.

A good man doesn't always care for his daughter.

Is your father unkind?

She laughed a little, tone tinged with bitterness.

No. He is never unkind. But he never loves.

He can't say anything because the only person he's ever loved is Christine, and since Christine never loved him back he wasn't sure how to advise the girl. It was alright at the end, since she continued on herself:

Never loves…never loved _me_. I am his daughter, his primary asset. An asset is all I am. I was raised a proper girl, a _decent girl_, in hopes of obtaining a marriage to some high-ranking noble who'd want me.

She wept, mainly at herself, wiping away tears as she said

Did anyone not think, that a plain girl like me, could dare to dream of wanton and romantic things? To dream of her fair prince and her golden castles? Did anyone not think, that because I am the Duke's daughter, that I deserve to have a happiness as full and true as any other woman's? How I envy your Christine, your beautiful Opera dancer who found her prince! How I envy her position, one without responsibility, one without any worry but that of the amorous kind!

She bit her lip.

I've been made bitter, so bitter over my fate. It's no different from that of any other nobleman's daughter, I suppose, but you'd think, that after all these years, at least _one_ of us could have a chance.

A chance? What for?

I don't know—anything, I suppose. A chance to live happily ever after. A chance to die in peace and serenity. A chance to die a dramatic, noteworthy death. A chance to be reborn—a-anything, I guess…anything that could make a difference in the world, like a in a book, or something of the sort.

It was in this way she talked, for maybe hours before her tears ran out and her handkerchief soiled. Her face became composed once more, and as clearly as he could feel his own he saw her slip on her own mask, one of dignity and pride, and with the least amount of stuttering possible bid him good night.

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One day she had simply come to him and said she had a fiancé. Strangely enough, there was no emotion in the words, and congratulated her even as his heart beat a strong _no no no_. Both of them had known this was coming, and she wished him sweet dreams and left him with his thoughts.

The next few days they talked, but not for long. She was always busy with wedding arrangements, helping her father negotiate with the decorators, the caterers. She went to night parties and extravagant balls, and when she came home smelled like champagne and expensive powder and perfume. She paid more attention to her appearance, the once drab brown hair shown with a light oil and skin flushed and scented with rose water. Her eyes were colored and outlined and her arms powdered an even whiter shade of pale. She shown and reminded him of Christine and he told her that. Their conversation was awkward for a few days, but it was soon forgotten. Whenever they talked, now, her eyes always seemed to be searching…searching…and her eyes lit up with hope more often than they used to. She smiled more, laughed more, but subsequently dark rings appeared below her eyes and he realized it was all a façade, a simple façade to keep him happy. He insisted that she not visit him for a few days and she agreed.

The days without her grew lonely. A serving girl brought him food each morning, and other then a few careless notes scribbled on the back of handkerchiefs he received no contact from her for about a month. He missed her conversation, for it was a distraction from the pain in his heart and drove his thoughts away from Christine. He'd taken to writing poetry, but he still had a long way to go before he could match up to the mastery of Donne or Keats. He'd taken to learning Latin, so he could speak something besides Hindi, French, English, or Italian (the languages he picked up throughout his many travels). Daytimes were devoted to study, nighttimes to Christine.

As always, it was nighttime when she came back. He looked up to find her in a tattered robe, quite soaked from head to toe. Her brown eyes sparkled with a kind of foreign energy, all scars from society washed away with the mud and rain she'd been running through.

May I sit down?

Yes.

She sat down, reaching for the tea cup set on the table. She peered into the tea box.

Why, it's almost empty.

Yes.

I hadn't noticed.

She searched the cabinets for more tea, and filled the box again. She'd always kept it full. Tea cups were always full when she was around.

They drank, she much more quickly than he, so that she was on her third cup before he had finished his first. It was unlike her to be so hurried.

At the third cup she spoke.

I've met my fiancé. He is the Earl of Shaftesbury, a very high-ranking social position.

He said nothing. She continued:

He's very young. No older than thirty, I believe. His father died young and he was left with the fortune at age ten. He's very handsome.

Still nothing.

Everyone says he is very charming. He is exceptionally kind as well—he's the sponsor of three orphanages here in France. The children adore him. I'm very lucky, I suppose, to have secured him.

He feels like he's choking. Why?

We are to be married next Sunday.

Why hadn't she told him? Would that have changed anything?

There's silence. The rain should be soothing, yet he's drowning, drowning in the silence. Every breath is audible, every sigh is heard. And still she says:

This is your last chance.

He doesn't understand.

Your last chance to kidnap me and take me away.

The words are beating themselves against his skull, yet he can't make sense of them. She's crying, he feels it, and he realizes the water streaming down his cheeks isn't rain at all, but tears…

We could run away together. I manage about half of the family's finances, I'll simply withdraw my dowry and inheritance and we could live on that. You could be a magician, and I could sew, or embroider. We could have a fairy tale ending.

Something's begging in her voice, but it's not her voice he hears. Christine's crying…crying…why are you crying?

I love him. Don't take him away from me.

I won't.

Is that a promise?

Kidnap me. _Please_.

(I love you.)

She loves him. She's never wanted to leave him, never. She was never his, her heart long captured by the childhood friend and her long-dead father.

(I love you.)

Everything was a lie. He knew it, too. He'd forced this upon the girl, and now she hated him.

(…can you hear me?)

He should have known better then to love. _The Devil's children were never meant to find happiness_.

(ERIK, I LOVE YOU!)

The world was wrong, wrong because of him. He couldn't do it.

**Promises should be kept.**

It didn't sound like his voice.

**You've promised him your hand. Keep it.**

The world has stopped. He watches as her teacup falls slowly to the ground, splattering the contents onto the bed, onto the floor, the little droplets sinking into the wood and never to return again.

There are no tears left. There never will be. A broken heart cannot feel, and he sees himself in her as she picks up the broken pieces, one last tear struggling to stay on her face, before the gravity is just too much and it's

falling

fallen

With the last drop of her soul gone he finds an empty shell, and not knowing what to do with it, says good night.

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He's living in a house in Florence, now. It's not too far from the market, and close enough to the vast public libraries. Sometimes he goes to the church and plays the organ there; the Sisters in the Coventry admire his music and sometimes let him attend Sunday service. Having lost his last attempt for forgiveness, he now tries bargaining directly with God.

He's reading the morning newspaper. The headline reads "Earl of Shaftesbury and Wife Tend to Drought Victims." Cynthia wasn't lying at all—the Earl _is _handsome. Dashing black locks and perfect features grace the front page, and standing beside him she looks beautiful. Sometimes he wonders if Christine could ever manage the grace and poise she wields so carefully.

He puts the paper away and pulls out his notebook. He writes poems in daytime now. Somehow the sun makes the page brighter and fills him with memories of paintings and laughter and bitter tears in the rain. He keeps a full teacup on his table, and takes a sip from it now.

He tests his pen against the parchment, the ink stain like blood, and begins to write.

_A/N: Reviews, flames, and rants are quite welcome._


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